


Riding To The End of the Line

by kishiriaz



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M, Safe For Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-02
Updated: 2014-06-02
Packaged: 2018-02-03 05:03:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1732172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kishiriaz/pseuds/kishiriaz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve makes one final effort to drag Bucky back to sanity.  The Food Network and Amtrak come to the rescue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Riding To The End of the Line

Steve Rogers stood in his kitchen with a cup of coffee in his hand. His roommate, whose presence in Steve’s house was mandated by both friendship and duty to the United States, sat unmoving on the couch. The television was on, but Bucky couldn’t really be said to be “watching” it. He was upright, his eyes were open, but he wasn’t responding to anything on the screen. Not that Steve would expect him to have much of a reaction to the Food Network, but if it inspired the once-Winter Soldier to get up, go to the kitchen, and make a sandwich it would have been a victory of sorts. It would have been at least something.

There was no way to deny it. Bucky was not getting better.

Granted, he’d stopped trying to kill Steve. Bucky had come to Steve’s apartment door one evening, blinked at him and said, “You’re Steve Rogers. You’re my friend,” before walking in and sitting on the couch. Since then, he had rarely spoken again, and it had been three weeks.

The routine had been the same all that time. Steve had given Bucky the bed and hoped that his sleeping on sofa cushions would remind Bucky of the times Steve had spent the night like that when they were boys. After seeing that it got no response, Steve conceded to his backache and started sleeping on the bed with Bucky. 

In the morning, Steve’s alarm clock would go off. He would change into exercise clothing and Bucky would silently do the same. They would go running or lift weights with Sam, then return to the apartment. Steve would order Bucky to shower and dress again, which he would. He would eat food placed in front of him. After one week, Steve realized that he could leave Bucky alone in the apartment since he wouldn’t do anything but sit. 

So this was the third Saturday that Bucky had been with Steve, and all Bucky was doing was sitting in front of mindless programming. Steve changed the channel to a college football game and put the remote back down on the coffee table. 

“There you go. Auburn versus Florida State. Can you believe how much the uniforms have changed since we were kids, Buck?”

No answer. Steve looked at his friend’s face. His eyes weren’t even tracking the ball or players.

“Okay. Look, I’m going out to lunch with Sam. I have my cell phone if you need to call me, because these days you can carry telephones with you, remember? There’s lemonade and stuff for sandwiches in the fridge if you get hungry. I’ll be back around 3.”

Bucky said nothing.

“So, give me a report on how the game went we got back, okay?”

It was like talking to an empty room. Steve pressed his lips together, suppressing a sigh. He wouldn’t show signs of disappointment around Bucky. He wouldn’t.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do, Sam,” Steve said, munching on some sweet potato fries in a corner booth of a fake 50s diner. “It’s like he’s completely lobotomized. I can’t get any reactions out of him. Last time he spoke, it was when I had the Military Channel on and it had a World War 2 show on. “

Sam put down his iced tea. “What’d he do?”

“He said, ‘I don’t like this’, so I changed the channel and blocked it.”

“Facial expression?”

“He furrowed his brow, looked a little distressed, like he was remembering something unpleasant. He didn’t explode on me though, or have some kind of fit. I wish he had.”

“You saw the results of his medical examination at the VA. His whole brain shows signs of trauma. He wouldn’t even be alive if he weren’t a super-soldier. That being said, with stimulation at least some of him should come back.”

Steve shook his head. “It’s not. So I dunno. I dunno what to do with him, Sam. I left him with a football game and food in the fridge. I can guarantee you he won’t have eaten by the time I get home because I won’t have been there to tell him to.”

Sam nodded, put his drink down, and focused his gaze on Steve’s face. “It might be time to think about the hard choices, then.”

“Hard choices? Like what?”

“If he doesn’t do anything unless he’s told to, well…you can’t be there for him every single day, Steve. “

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying it might be time to have him institutionalized.”

Steve went pale. “I can’t put Bucky away in one of those places!”

“It’s not like in your day, Steve. Look.” Sam placed a brochure from the Veterans Administration on the table. “He’d be with doctors and staff who specialize in soldier’s issues. The facility is clean and safe. He’d have his own room, they’d have therapy for him.”

“No.” Steve’s colour was returning, and going into the opposite direction of lividity now. “I told him almost a century ago I’d never abandon him. It damn near killed me when he turned up alive and I thought I’d broken my word to him. I’ll get a bigger place with a yard in Maryland somewhere, get some, I dunno, nurse or someone to come in when I’m not there. But I’m not putting Bucky away. I’m not.”

Sam waited for him to finish. “It was just a possibility. If you think that getting a big place in Maryland is the best thing for Bucky, I’ll introduce you to a good realtor.”

“He still has some initiative left in him. He came to my apartment on his own. If he was able to do that, there’s some hope.”

 

Steve rode home on his motorcycle, suddenly afraid. What if Sam was right? What if being in a hospital really was the best thing for Bucky, especially if it was for veterans, clean, and not a hellhole?

Then he pictured Bucky sitting in a line of elderly World War 2 pensioners, all of whom were decrepit and senile, reminiscing or reliving the war, unable to process the presence of the apparently young man among them.

Steve had decided to get the phone number of Sam’s realtor when he walked up the stairs to his apartment and opened the door.

Bucky was still sitting on the couch in the same position he’d been in when Steve left.

The food was still untouched in the fridge.

“Buck…” he sighed.

Steve went into the kitchen, took out the bread and cold cuts, and made a sandwich. He poured a glass of milk and brought it all to the living room. He placed them on the coffee table and said, “Bucky, eat.”

Bucky reached for the sandwich and started eating obediently. When the sandwich was finished, he drank the milk.

“Bucky, brush your teeth.”

He got up and went to the bathroom. A moment later, Steve heard the sound of Bucky brushing his teeth. Steve was glad that Bucky stopped automatically when he was done, and didn’t need to be told. He was even more grateful that Bucky would use the toilet on his own. When he’d first shown up at Steve’s front door, Steve had worried that he’d have to tell him to go every two hours or so. 

That was something to cling to for hope, too.

The game wasn’t a very good one, so Steve switched back to the Food Network. The show was “Diners, Drive-Ins , and Dives” which was okay; Steve occasionally noted down restaurants to try if he was in town. Bucky came into the living room again and resumed his spot on the couch. 

The topic seemed to be hot dog stands. Steve watched the host go to a place in Arizona which served bacon-wrapped hot dogs.

“Good thing we have super circulation, eh, Bucky?” he asked with false gaiety. “We could eat those and not die. Although it’s probably take some running to work them off.”

Bucky said nothing.

The next place was in Montreal, where they served steamed hot dogs. The last and final location was Coney Island and the nearly century-old original Nathan’s.

Steve felt a rush of nostalgia. He remembered going there sometimes, summer days when a nickel hot dog was just about all he and Bucky could afford. He felt wistful looking at the place and thinking about evenings on the boardwalk, looking at the lights coming on on the rides as the sky darkened and—

Bucky raised a hand and pointed at an exterior shot of the hot dog stand. “Look,” he said.

“Bucky?”

“I know that place,” he said. His brow was furrowed, though not as deeply or with any distress this time. Intense thought, a struggle to remember, perhaps.

Steve knelt on the floor beside him. “Think, Bucky. What can you remember?”

Bucky shook his head and looked down at Steve. “I know it. That’s all.”

“Stay right there.” Steve ran from the apartment and down the street to the miniature supermarket. They did sell Nathan’s hot dogs, so he grabbed them and some hot dog rolls. He already had sauerkraut, but couldn’t remember if Bucky liked it or not. That was the least of his concerns. He almost ran back to his building, and he did run up the stairs to his apartment. One cast iron skillet, one saucepan of sauerkraut, rolls in the toaster oven. The minutes crawled by until the hot dogs were cooked and the rolls were browned. Steve got them onto a plate with some Gulden’s mustard (he had never bought any other all his life) and brought them out to Bucky.

“Here. They sell them in stores now. Do you still remember them?”

Bucky picked one up, sniffed, and bit into it. He frowned as he chewed, looking as if he were delving for information inside his head. He finished the hot dog, looked at Steve and said, “More.”

“You liked that?” Steve felt his heart pounding with hope.

“Yes, but…” the frown returned. “Something was missing.”

“Sauerkraut?”

Bucky took a moment to consider, then nodded. “Yes. And…relish?”

“I don’t have relish, but I do have sauerkraut.” He assembled a hot dog with those condiments and brought it back to Bucky, who ate it.

“Yes,” said Bucky. “I know this. Why do I know this?”

Steve was almost bouncing on his toes. Bucky knows. Her remembers something. “Because we used to eat them when we were kids at the beach and the boardwalk. Coney Island. Remember Coney Island?”

“Coney Island.” Bucky thought about it. “I know the name.”

Steve ran to his laptop and called up an Amtrak schedule. 

 

At 0730 the next morning, Steve guided Bucky into the window seat on an Amtrak train bound for New York. Steve had thought about the Acela train which only took two and half hours as opposed to three and a half, but he knew being on a public transport like this would stress Bucky to begin with. At least this way he could look out the window and see what had and had not changed.

Bucky watched silently out the window. Steve read the Washington Post on his tablet, keeping an eye on his companion. Bucky was doing well; his head was moving, indicating that he was actually looking at what was going past him, not just staring fixedly through the glass. 

He fell asleep on Steve’s shoulder somewhere in southern New Jersey. Steve shifted around to make the position more comfortable for the both of them. He finished the newspaper and switched to a history of the development of the internet that he was reading.

Not long after, the train disappeared into a tunnel and Bucky woke up. He jumped at the darkness outside the window and Steve had to reassure him about where they were. Bucky settled down again until the train came to the platform.

Steve took Bucky’s left hand and guided him out into Penn Station. Tony Stark had devised a natural-looking silicon glove to go over his metal hand, but Steve still felt better concealing it a little. At first, he rationalized that in this day and age, no one would make any comments about two grown men holding hands. 

Then he realized that people were looking at them. Steve was wearing his usual disguise of baseball cap and fake glasses, with Bucky in a non-descript long sleeved t-shirt and jeans. The looks were not ones of recognition. 

He walked with Bucky to a large plastic covered subway map and pointed to where they were. “We’re here, at Penn Station. The trains from out of state started coming here sometime in the 1990s. Grand Central is local trains now. “ He looked at Bucky, who obviously wasn’t registering any of this. “We have a straight shot on the D train into Brooklyn. I haven’t been back to the old neighbourhood, but I hear it’s changed. “

He continued to lead his friend by the hand to the fare booth, where there was automatically confusion on two fronts.

“You use farecards now?”

The woman behind the bulletproof glass nodded. “By zone. The machines are over there.”

Steve looked over. They had farecards on the Washington Metro, so the idea wasn’t foreign. “I thought it was tokens.”

“We stopped using them in 2006.” She looked at Bucky. “Tell you what, sir. Get your own farecard and I’ll pass your friend in. I have a developmentally challenged brother, too.”

So that was why people were looking at him and Bucky that way. “Thanks, ma’am. That’s very considerate of you.”

Bucky did nothing to disprove the woman’s theory. 

The MTA still smelled the way Steve remembered, of diesel and urine. It looked a lot cleaner than he’d expected, although the train floor was inevitably grimy. The interior of the train was bright and the seats were thinly upholstered. No one looked at anyone else, which was another thing that hadn’t changed. He again sat Bucky by the window, but there wasn’t much to look at until the train emerged from under the East River. They had arrived back in Brooklyn.

They exited the station to find the Brooklyn Bridge towering over them. Steve turned Bucky so they could both look up at it. The late-morning sun was blocked out by the famous arches, and they could see people walking across to and from Manhattan.  
That succeeded in getting Bucky’s attention. He raised his eyes to the sight of the bridge and looked up and down its length. A tiny little grimace that was almost a smile touched his lips.

“Nice to see it again, eh, Bucky?” Let’s see how the rest of the place fared.”

Better. Brooklyn Heights had clearly risen from its rough and impoverished past and gentrified. The nasty brick tenements that always had clotheslines running from them, and which once smelled of unwashed humans and boiled cabbages now had sandblasted facades and paint. It was still full of families, but now instead of poor Irish immigrants like Steve’s parents, the couples were young and professional, out with one or two children in expensive looking strollers. 

Two couples, each with a baby, went past them. The couples consisted of four men, all of whom were talking animatedly about their kids and the cost of daycare. Bucky watched them pass, then looked at Steve.

“Like I said, the world’s changed. Remember how the clubs by the Navy Yard used to get raided all the time? You don’t see that anymore, and a good thing too, I say. Two men or two women can get married in New York. Racism’s still around, and you can ask Sam all about that, but it’s sure better than it used to be. Although New York was never that bad. “

That wasn’t entirely true. Steve knew his father had been beaten up by Italian gangs soon after arriving in the U.S., and it happened more than one time, too. 

They stopped walking, and Steve found that his feet had led him to a block of rowhouses on a tree-lined narrow street. He turned to the second one on the left. Upstairs had been his first home with his parents.

“You’re sad,” Bucky observed in his soft, seldom-used voice.

Steve froze. Bucky speaking was rare enough, but this was the first time he’d said anything not about his own condition. 

“Yes, but you talking always makes everything better,” Steve said. “I was thinking about my ma and da. It did make me sad, but you’re here. You were always there for me, and I never would have survived without you. I hope you know that.” Steve put an arm around Bucky’s shoulders and looked up at the window which had been the only one in the Rogers’ tiny, tiny flat. “Those were hard times, but we got through them together, didn’t we?’ He squeezed his friend. “We’ll get through these, too.”

They continued down the street until they were further south of the bridge and more inland from the water. The tenement that had once been Steve’s and Bucky’s home together was now offices with a sushi restaurant in the basement. The whole place was overshadowed by taller buildings from later decades. Since it was a weekend, there wasn’t much foot traffic.

Steve and Bucky both looked up to the windows of what had once been their apartment. A neon sign in the window in the shape of a tooth showed it to now be an orthodontist’s office.

“Our apartment went into a more respectable line of work than we did,” Steve commented. “That place was such a roach hotel. Drafty too. Every winter we were there, I thought for sure was going to be my last.” He looked at his friend gratefully. “Thanks to you, it wasn’t. You always brought home food and medicine for me, because you were the one who always could find work. I guess it’s my turn to take care of you now. “ He turned to face Bucky. “Like we’ve said to each other before, we’re together ‘til the end of the line.”

“Oh, just kiss him, already,” grumbled an older lady, walking past them to the drugstore across the street.

Steve ignored the comment. “Speaking of the end of the line, we should go to Coney Island. We can stop in Sheepshead Bay on the way. Remember Lundy’s? “ The restaurant had been a fixture by the docks since World War I. “I bet the menu’s changed a lot in 70 years, but the fish should still be good. We can go there for lunch.”

Sheepshead Bay was on the D line, two stops from the end. Steve and Bucky came out of the station under the overpass. It was claustrophobic as the train rumbled overhead, continuing on towards the beaches. They were assaulted by the combating smells of fresh-baked pizza and old, stale garbage. Steve cringed, but Bucky’s nostrils flared. The odours might be rough on the nose, but they were familiar and obviously reminding him of the past. He blinked like a sleeper awakening and looked around.

“I remember,” he murmured softly.

“Let’s see if I do. The pier is this way.”

Steve navigated by the Romanesque steeple of St. Mark’s church, keeping it to the left and behind them. Eventually he could smell ocean and fish and kept walking towards that. When they reached the promenade parallel to the piers, the fishing boats were still there, moored just as they had been in the 30s and 40s. Steve grinned and looked at Bucky, whose usual sullen expression had been replaced by something close to wonder.

Lundy’s was gone.

They stood regarding the shopping center that had replaced it. Steve was hungry and knew that Bucky had to be as well. 

Still, he walked over to a nearby newsstand and asked the man operating it, “What happened to Lundy’s? Did it go under?”

The man looked towards where the restaurant had been. “Superstorm Sandi took it out. It’d been struggling for a few years, kept changing hands. Real shame. That place was there since 1916, but now it’s just part of the past.”

“No fish,” said Bucky.

So much for their lunch plans. A quick glance at his smart phone showed Steve that nearby were some Japanese restaurants, and he didn’t think Bucky was ready for that. The other local options were Russian. No. Further study showed a diner a couple of blocks north of the waterfront, so he told Bucky to start walking and steered him there.

There was a stand of free newspapers in the entryway, so Steve picked one up before the hostess seated them. The place was classic Brooklyn, with red vinyl banquettes in the booths and chrome coathooks between them.

“Only a menu for me,” Steve said to the waitress who brought them. “My brother is mentally disabled, so I’ll be ordering for him.”

“Okay,” the waitress told him with a sympathetic glance at Bucky. She left them alone for a few minutes, during which time Steve made selections for himself and Bucky and started paging through the newspaper.

“Ready to order?

“I’ll have a Reuben sandwich and a Sprite.”

“And you, honey?” The waitress looked at Bucky.

“He’ll have a club sandwich and a Coke. Thanks for asking him, though.”

“I don’t like to pretend people aren’t there.”

Steve resolved to give her a good tip, then returned to poring through the event listings in the paper. “I have no idea who any of these bands are,” he admitted, looking at the concerts that weekend. “I don’t even know what styles of music they are. Hm. After sunset there’s a Social Justice meeting at Temple Beth-Israel , and it’d be pretty ironic for me to show up. Yeah, but it’s also a vegan potluck, and I don’t know about you, Buck, but soybeans have never been a favourite of mine. And chia pudding, brrr! Hm. There’s a rave, but I don’t think that’s our scene. Lesbian film festival. Maybe. Support group for the families of recovering otherkin…I have no idea what that means.”

The waitress brought their drinks. Steve told Bucky to drink some, but only as much as he wanted. Sometimes this worked, sometimes this didn’t. 

“Sure are a lot of places to go swing dancing, though. I guess my friend Rachel’s right, Brooklyn never did pull completely out of the 40s. Remember dancing, Bucky? I couldn’t do it much, not with my asthma, but you always seemed to have fun when you went out, and I liked watching you. In this day and age, we could dance together, even. The world’s changed.”

Their sandwiches arrived. The Reuben was a proper New York deli style, on seeded rye with well-cut pastrami. Bucky’s sandwich looked good, but he didn’t have much to say about it one way or the other. Still, he’d spoken a few times in one day, which was excellent progress.

They took their time strolling back towards the subway, then took it a little further to Brighton Beach. As with Sheepshead Bay, the place showed only superficial signs of change. Families walked along the promenade, with some on the beach itself as the tide came in. Old people fed the seagulls and pigeons. Kids rode skateboards, which was new to Steve and Bucky although Steve knew they had been around since the 80s. 

Then a group of attractive young men and women in stylish clothes walked by, talking animatedly to each other. Bucky froze, his eyes glazing over in fear.

Steve took his arm. “Bucky, what?” 

Then it struck him. They had been speaking Russian.

“They’re not HYDRA,” Steve said, facing him and putting his hands on Bucky’s shoulders. “They’re not HYDRA and even if they were, I wouldn’t let them hurt you. No one will hurt you. Ever again.”

Bucky’s eyes met Steve’s. That was a rare occurrence, and Steve’s face broke into a grin. 

It faded immediately when Bucky said, “You can’t protect me.”

“Maybe not from everything, but I have your back, and that’s something I don’t think anyone has since the war,” Steve clarified.

Bucky nodded. “Okay. Where to now?”

Steve had to smile again. Bucky had held a conversation, and now put two phrases together. “Coney Island itself.”

Coney Island had changed, enormously.  
It had also changed for the better. As soon as they came down from the subway platform, Steve had to look around to orient himself. The Wonder Wheel was still there, as was the Cyclone. Nathan’s Hot Dogs, which had inspired the trip originally, looked much the same as in the 40s. There was a Coney Island Museum, which was new to him, and a directory of artists who worked out of Luna Park. The area had a different kind of liveliness, and Steve didn’t know where to start.

He decided to ponder this over pizza and beer. He followed his nose and they found themselves in a beachside restaurant that was open on one side. Steve bought four slices and a couple of bottles of beer. He and Bucky sat down to eat and drink while Steve looked through a few brochures about a place he already knew they’d be returning to later.

They went to the Aquarium. They rode the Wonder Wheel and the bumper cars. When they approached the Cyclone, Bucky looked up at it, then pointed to a section of pavement, his eyes fixed on Steve.

“You threw up there.”

Steve laughed. “You remember!”

“Some,” Bucky said. “A little bit. Pictures, in my mind.” He sighed. “I am afraid to sleep tonight, if I’m remembering things.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. You’re having fun right now. Let’s stay in the moment.”

Dusk fell and the beachfront rides and attractions lit up. Bucky turned his head to the side.

“What do you hear, pal?” Steve asked.

“Music.” Bucky raised his head and pointed. “That way.”

He was right. In the middle distance, Steve could make out Big Band music. He’d discarded the paper hours ago, but immediately recalled that swing dancing was still a hobby for a lot of 21st century people. 

The two of them sought out the source of the music. It turned out to be a hall that served as a modern burlesque venue on other nights. Steve paid the cover charge and they went inside.

There was a wooden dance floor, and balconies, and a stage with a big band on it. It wasn’t crowded, and Steve got the impression that it was early yet. He and Bucky went to the bar and Steve looked at the beer list. He’d ordered Pabst for them when they’d had pizza, because it was a brand that existed from their time. Now he decided to bring the 21st century to their 1940s surroundings and ordered a couple of local craft beers. They arrived in frosted glasses, and the liquid itself was a reddish amber. “Cheers,” he said, clinking his glass against Bucky’s.  
Bucky took a sip. “This is good. The beer we had with pizza looked like piss.”

Steve snorted, sending foam flying out of his glass.

They listened to the band for an hour or so, watching people come in in period clothes of various types. Quite a number of men were wearing zoot suits, or other 1940s styles of “going out” outfits. The women wore vintage dresses, their hair in poofy styles with the bold makeup of the time. Steve felt a rush of inadequacy. They looked like the girls who would have flocked to Bucky, ignoring him. 

Bucky looked worried. Seventy years ago, he’d have been in his element, approaching any female whose looks he liked. Now he seemed to recede behind his hair and beverage, moving closer into Steve’s shadow.

“Bucky, this isn’t like you,” Steve observed.

Bucky frowned in thought. “I didn’t have any special lady, did I?”

“No. You just dated a lot. Girls liked you.”

“I liked them. Now, I don’t know. Things have changed. The culture, it’s changed. I better not try.” He looked at Steve. “You could. “

Steve laughed awkwardly. “Ah, you know me, Buck. Besides, they’re dressed like girls in our time, but they’re not. There’s going to be tattoos and piercings under those dresses, with personalities to match. That’s not a bad thing, just still unfamiliar to me too.”

“This is a world where men can marry each other,” Bucky said. He knocked back the last of his beer and replaced the glass on the bar. He held out his hand to Steve and asked, “May I have this dance?”

Steve gazed down at Bucky’s hand. “I never really did learn to dance.”

“It’s okay, I’ll lead.”

Steve took in his friend’s facial expression. For the first time, Bucky looked relaxed, his forehead unfurrowed. His eyes were meeting Steve’s face. 

He took Bucky’s hand. “Sure. I’d be glad to.”

They went onto the dance floor and no one stared. Bucky led, as promised, nonverbally cueing Steve on what to do. Bucky was even more graceful now than he had been before the war, and adapted to Steve’s now greater height and strength.

Steve reflected later, as they took the subway back towards Manhattan and Tony Stark’s place, that the two of them really could have danced all night, if the place had stayed open. For a few precious hours, their life had become normal and happy, a perfect fusion of their past, the present, and a now-possible future. 

For now, Steve held onto the memory of what he’d been hoping and praying for, without even knowing it. The sight of Bucky, his Bucky, the one he’d known in 1940, with his head thrown back as Steve spun him around on the dance floor. Laughing.

**Author's Note:**

> Couple of things: I'm actually from Brooklyn. We moved out when I was in first grade, but I continued visiting often until 2003. So I'm familiar with the locations in the story.
> 
> I also have war-related PTSD, tied to me being in Afghanistan 2009-2010. Nothing like Bucky's or Cap's needless to say, but "The Winter Soldier" definitely had themes that hit close to home.


End file.
